Skivvies Part II

Don’t get too excited by the title. It actually bears little to no resemblance to the initial Skivvies post…which you can read here should you be so inclined.

One of the things we try to do is ensure that the PBA have the necessary life skills which will serve them well.

Case in point…folding laundry.

As you may recall from previous posts (I have mentioned this before and it continues to be an issue…not so much for me, but the Y-chromosomes in the household), I have an aversion to folding the laundry, as of late. OK for the past handful of years.

Maybe 11.5 years to be exact. But who’s counting?

I can wash and dry it just fine, and I can even get it into the basket. But I clearly have a roadblock at that point. Rarely do I get it folded.

That being said, if one or both members of the PBA are watching TV, and there is a basketload (or possibly more…don’t judge) of laundry patiently waiting to be folded, it will be there job.

As an aside, they have, on more than one occasion, chosen to NOT watch TV because they desperately did not want to fold the laundry.

I can totally relate.

Anyway, sometimes you never know whose clothes will get put into which pile. I believe I am the only one in the household who knows definitively what clothes go to each person.

Well, yesterday the 9yo was folding laundry and when he was finished, I found a pair of boys skivvies in my stack.

Mind you, these are for a boy…say, an 11-12yo boy...NOT a grown man.

I realize it's difficult to tell from the picture hence my explanation.

At first I thought, “What?!? How can he possibly think these are mine? These are CLEARLY for a boy. You’d think his clue that these are NOT mine would come from the girlie-colored ones which are in my stack of laundry. No one else has pink, or purple, or floral patterns!”

And then I realized, “Wow! He must think I’m this tiny! He thinks I’m skinny!  All this work has paid off…someone has noticed!  He always was my favorite…”

Editor’s Note: Neither I, nor any other parent, actually have a favorite child…except for my parents. I am the favorite. Well, I’m pretty sure I’m the favorite. Just to put that thought to bed, lest that ugly rumor get started and we have WWIII erupt at my house.